


put it down to rudeness

by clockworkmargaret (morganya)



Category: Sweet (2000)
Genre: Embarrassment, F/M, M/M, Original Female Character - Freeform, Repression, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9393398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganya/pseuds/clockworkmargaret
Summary: Worst double-date ever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the honeymoon of Pete and Poppy's relationship. Title nicked from Camera Obscura.

Everything would have been fine if Pete hadn't decided to try to be a good friend. They could have gone on as before, probably.

Stitch met Pete after he moved to London. He was working at Woolworths to pay for his room and drinking what remained of his paycheque. There was a funny-looking bloke who started working the week after him, all hair and eyes like a fetal Iggy Pop, who Stitch only noticed because his name rhymed and he bopped about in his own world most of the time. Then one day Stitch had been in the middle of his afternoon shift, stocking shelves with American hair metal and wondering if he should just up and catch the train back to Leeds and save himself some trouble, and then the funny-looking bloke bounced up to him and said, "Hi, I'm Pete! Do you want to be friends with me?" Under the circumstances, Stitch couldn't refuse.

A few years later and Stitch was still in London, running Sweet with Pete and drinking less of his salary, usually. He'd thought things were all right. When he bothered to think about things, he thought they were all right.

Pete thought he fancied Poppy. Poppy was nice enough from what little Stitch had seen of her – that was normal with imaginary people, he supposed. But she wasn't anything like his type and it had been somewhat of a shock when Pete fell in love with her. Over the years he'd seen Pete bounce from one casual relationship or another with one girl or another, but he'd never seen Pete in love, really in love, head over heels.

He hated it.

He supposed it wasn't Poppy's fault that Pete was in love with her. It was just that Pete was absolutely ignorant about social limits and boundaries and could never do anything by half (sometimes Stitch thought he'd been raised by foxes or some other sort of wild, pointy animal). So ever since Pete had decided that he was in love, Stitch'd had to put up with him bursting into the shop in the morning, burbling about whatever they'd done together the previous night – kayaking or picnicking or setting houses on fire or some other stupid bloody thing Stitch didn't want to hear about. Then somehow Pete got it into his head that Stitch was somehow interested in his sex life and started telling him about that. He went into such detail about one particular shower escapade that now Stitch couldn't even take a shower anymore without the image of Pete popping into his head, Pete's raw-boned body spread against the tiles, gasping in water and eyes open wide.

It made him ill, it really did. Surely this wasn't what normal best mates did. His mates back in Leeds talked about gigs and what pub to go to and occasionally they moaned a bit if their lass was doing their head in. That was something he knew how to handle. He had no such frame of reference for Pete.

In the end, he did what he always did and kept his mouth shut. Part of him hoped that if he didn't supply Pete with any sort of attention, positive or negative, he'd get the message and stop filling Stitch's head with images that he didn't want to be there.

There was one point where he thought he'd managed it. Pete had come to work and spared him the recap of the Pete and Poppy Show. They'd had a busy day at the stall. They had closed everything down for the night and gone to the pub together, Stitch looking forward to his first after-work pint and letting Pete's usual happy stream of consciousness chatter burble around him.

Then Pete had said, "Do you fancy coming on a double-date with us? Poppy's got a mate she thinks'd be perfect for you."

Stitch had been in mid-swallow. He didn't choke, just lowered the glass and stared at Pete.

"Oh, come on," Pete said. "It'd be good for you. Her name's Zinnia. She's imaginary too. Poppy says she's exactly your type. Rocker hair, big blue eyes. Well fit."

"How's Poppy know what my type is?"

"I told her."

"Why are you even talking to Poppy about my type?"

"She asked?"

"I don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not? Poppy likes you. She told me she thinks you're a catch. She thinks you'd get on with this girl."

"I don't care what Poppy thinks," he said, more sharply than he meant to.

Pete frowned at him. "Is it because she's imaginary?"

"It is not because she's imaginary. I'm not an…an imaginarist."

"So what harm can a few drinks do? She's a nice girl. Maybe she could be the love of your life."

"I doubt it."

"Why not?"

"I'm not going to listen to what you and Poppy think is best for me."

"Why are you bothered about me and Poppy?"

"I'm not bothered."

"Are you already seeing someone?" Pete looked hurt. "Did you start seeing someone and not tell me about it?"

"No. I don't want to date anyone right now, Pete. I'm busy."

"You're not too busy to see me."

"Well, I'm not dating you, am I?"

"I thought –" The hurt look hadn't left Pete's face. It didn't suit him. "Maybe if you had someone to go out with, you'd be happier. You wouldn't be so pissed off at me all the time."

"I'm not," Stitch protested.

Pete looked at him. There were many things Stitch could resist in the world, but Pete Sweet being sad was not one of them. Stitch gulped down the rest of his pint and said, "One drink. That's it."

Which was how he wound up standing in front of the mirror in his flat, wondering what he was even doing with his life. He'd never really gotten the hang of dating. He'd had various fumblings with a number of girls back home, but they were all done through a haze of agonizing adolescent self-consciousness and drink. He'd never been quite sure how adults went about things.

When he was sixteen, his dad had come home for tea, sat down at the table, looked him in the eye and asked, "Have you gotten anyone pregnant?" Stitch had glanced outside the kitchen window and said, "No?"

His dad said, "Good. Don't." That had been the end of it.

It had been a normal upbringing, Stitch supposed. The only things he and his parents had talked about was what time to be home, what needed cleaning, and maybe occasionally if the stereo needed to be turned down. It had been a comfortable, ordinary, airless existence.

It hadn't done much to prepare him for a double-date with his best friend and two imaginary girls.

Also, he wished he could do something with his hair.

They met for drinks in Kentish Town. Everyone else was coming together, so Stitch had a few drinks while he secured the table. Pete showed up with the girls twenty minutes late.

"Stitch, you already know the gorgeous Poppy," Pete said. "And this is Zinnia."

"Hi," Stitch said, and offered his hand. He generally had a pretty good imagination, so he had some idea about what Zinnia looked like: like Poppy, she was sort of a flickery blur next to Pete, but while Poppy was the suggestion of curves and ginger hair, Zinnia was an occasional flash of blue eyes, a wisp of dirty blonde hair. Stitch supposed she shook his hand back.

"I'll get the first round, shall I?" Pete said, and bounced off before Stitch could say anything.

Stitch sat back down. Poppy and Zinnia arranged themselves around the table. It was very quiet suddenly. Stitch didn't quite know how imaginary people spoke, if they vibrated the air around them or beamed out thoughts telepathically or what. Maybe they were speaking and he just couldn't hear it.

"Did you get here all right?" he said loudly. "Walk? Take the Tube? Did Pete take his scooter? I've ridden on that scooter. Bit dangerous, the way he drives. I suppose it's good you all got here safely. I'd have hated to reschedule because you'd all been in a horrible accident and got splattered all over the road."

They were both staring at him. _Shut up, idiot,_ his brain supplied. "…Traffic," Stitch said weakly and finished his drink just as Pete was coming back.

Luckily Pete talked enough for three people on his own. Stitch was happy to keep quiet and drink while Pete was his charming self. Stitch could almost forget they were supposed to be on a date while Pete talked about what the puppies were up to and what records he'd been listening to recently. The only thing that brought Stitch out of it was that occasionally Pete turned to the side and said, "But we like that, don't we, Poppy?"

Stitch jolted to attention when Pete said, "I'll get another round. Stitch, come lend a hand?"

He followed Pete to the bar. Pete put in the order and said, "Are you not having a good time?"

Stitch blinked. "What? It's fine."

"You haven't said a word to Zinnia all night. You just keep looking at me. The poor girl's getting a complex about it. Normally she never stops talking."

"Oh," Stitch said. "Well, I told you I didn't want to do this."

"You're spoiling it before it even gets started. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Stitch said guiltily. "I don't think she even fancies me, anyway."

"What are you on about? You're a big, tall, handsome lad. Anyone would fancy you."

Something pleased and shy spread out luxuriously in his stomach. "Well, I'll try," Stitch said.

"All right. Help me with the drinks?"

When they got back to the table, Pete announced, "They took forever up there," before passing round the glasses. Stitch sat back down beside Zinnia. She flickered like a low-quality film image. He saw a flash of blue that might have meant she was looking his way.

"Awright?" he said.

After drinks, Pete thought they should all go dancing. Stitch was feeling slightly woozy by the time they made it to the club, and Zinnia didn't seem to know what she was even doing, so they wound up stood against the back of the wall together, watching Pete and Poppy.

Stitch thought that watching Pete dance was an experience in itself; his moves never varied no matter what music was playing. He simply flung himself about the dance floor in a controlled circle, arms going everywhere, legs pogoing up and down. If Stitch didn't know that he played football every weekend and had thighs like coils of dock rope, he'd worry that Pete would fall over and snap.

He hadn't seen Pete dance with Poppy before, hadn't thought about the possibility that they would ever dance with each other. While Pete hurtled about the floor, Poppy sparked around him, a swirl of red light from her hair, the suggested shadow of her body. The music went on but Pete stopped and grabbed hold of her, pulling her in. Stitch saw his mouth part, the tip of his tongue, bright hot pink. Stitch thought, _He doesn't care who sees._ He watched Pete's small, deft hands trace what must have been the outlines of Poppy's body. Sweat was running down the small of Stitch's back.

He looked over at Zinnia. She was looking over at Pete. For the first time that night, her features coalesced; she watched him with something that could have been envy, eyes wide behind her shaggy dirty blonde hair.

Pete was still all over Poppy. If he noticed them staring, it didn't show. He could have been a million miles away.

Stitch looked away from Pete. "Do you want to come back to my place?" he said. She nodded without looking at him.

He sent a text to Pete to let him know where they'd gone. He hailed a cab outside in the greasy London air and let Zinnia get in first. He wondered, idly, if it looked like he was going home alone.

When they got to the flat, he realized he had no idea what to do. He'd offered the invitation and hadn't considered anything beyond that. He was already more than half-drunk.

"Care for anything?" he said and disappeared into the kitchen area without waiting for an answer.

He opened two Newcastle Browns and took them back out. Zinnia was flickering on the settee. He put a bottle in front of her. There was no Pete here to provide conversation; Stitch was going to have to do the best he could on his own.

"Have you known Poppy long?" he asked. He perched on the edge of the chair next to the settee, bottle sweating in his hand. "Pete and I met her at the same time. Dave introduced her to us and then Pete fell in love with her just like that. I guess it was time he settled down with someone." He suddenly realized the flat was in a right state. He put the bottle on the coffee table and went to sort it out. Words kept tumbling out of his mouth and he didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them.

"He's dated before, just not like this. D'you know, when I met him, I didn't think he was the marrying kind? Not that he's going to marry Poppy. Well, maybe he will, I haven't thought that far ahead yet. Do you think she'll marry him? That'll be a sight to see, won't it? Pete Sweet, married man. I can't imagine that – no offense. I don't know if that's just because I've been in love with him for so long or –" The words stopped.

Zinnia was staring at him. "Oh, God," Stitch said. He fled into the bathroom and locked the door.

He hung over the toilet, unsure if he was going to vomit or not. He was shaking all over. He was thinking, _Why did I say that, why did I say that, did I say that because it was something to say or because it was true, how can that be true, why is that true?_

How did he fall in love with Pete and not notice? Why did he ask this girl home with him? What was wrong with him?

He wanted to curl up in the shower like a hurt animal and just stay there. His brain didn't fit in his body and he didn't know what to do with it.

He couldn't stay in here. He couldn't let her know that he'd meant what he'd said. She would leave and then she would tell Poppy and Poppy would tell Pete. And Pete would choose Poppy and Stitch would be alone again.

He had a problem.

Maybe he could still play it off. He could stand up, go outside and pretend he'd been joking. He could blame it on drink or nerves or any number of things. He could walk outside and pretend it never happened. He gulped down some air and forced himself to detach, to ignore the chaos whirling around inside his head, and unlocked the door.

The imaginary girl was crying. She sat sobbing on his settee with her head in her hands. She looked up and everything about her was suddenly in perfect focus, a skinny girl with shaggy, dirty blonde hair and streaky eyeliner and hurt, humiliated eyes.

"I –" Stitch started but realized he couldn't play it off. He didn't have the heart to lie. He sat down heavily in his chair. "I didn't know," he said. "I'm sorry. I – sorry."

She started to gather her things. Stitch was too embarrassed to even mention the embarrassment. She went and opened the door. Before she left she turned back and he braced himself for whatever her hurt was going to do, but instead she just stared at him for a long moment, and the hurt faded into what looked like pity, and somehow that was worse. Her mouth didn't move but he still heard her voice as if she had spoken out loud, a clear London voice saying, "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone." And then she was gone.

Stitch finished both bottles of ale and balled up on the settee. If he fell asleep, maybe then he could get up in the morning and pretend nothing had ever happened. He could pretend that he hadn't been in love with his best friend for years.

He was thinking, _Why didn't I know this before? Why didn't anyone tell me this could happen? What am I?_

He didn't sleep at all. In the morning he thought about calling in sick to work because the thought of facing Pete was too terrifying. But they had new records coming in and they needed to be catalogued and entered into the system, and if he called in there was the chance that Pete would get concerned and come round to see how he was, and the thought of Pete in his flat was even more terrifying.

He dragged himself down to work. The breeze coming off of the lock made his skin crawl. He shut himself in the stall and began cataloguing the new records, because that was simple and made sense and he didn't have to think about it.

Pete, of course, showed up right on time for work. He came in looking tired and cheerful in the green parka that was too big for Stitch, much less him. Stitch looked away.

"Awright, Stitch," Pete said. "You're here early. Thought you might want a lie-in after last night. Need help with anything?"

Stitch looked down at his hands, white-knuckled around the record sleeve. If he wasn't careful, it was going to snap in half. "You can put those away," he told Pete, indicating with his head to the pile of already-catalogued records.

Pete began storing the records, hands moving quickly and deftly over the stock. "Things go all right with Zinnia then?"

"Fine."

"You going to see her again?"

"No."

Pete paused and looked at him. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You went home together."

Stitch's throat was tight. "Just didn't click, that's all." He bent down and picked up a stack of records. "It didn't work out."

"Aw, Stitch. Cheer up, mate. You're too good for her, anyway. Poppy says –"

The records slipped out of his hands and all over the floor. " _Stop._ "

Pete stared at him, bewildered. "What?"

"Stop talking about her. You're always _talking_ about her." He was trying to pick the records up but they weren't behaving.

"Stitch –" Pete came towards him, soft hands unfolding, and something twisted in his stomach.

He shoved himself as far away from Pete as he could get. "Don't touch me. Don't touch me, I'll hit you right in your fucking pretty mouth. I'm _fine_."

Pete backed off. He fiddled with his hair and let Stitch pick the records up. Then he said, "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yeah," Stitch said.

Pete trotted off across the way to get tea. Stitch tried to get back to what he was doing but he couldn't focus.

He couldn't come in every day and act like this. Somehow he had to manage.

Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away. He had gone along unknowing for most of his life, maybe a few more years wouldn't hurt. Maybe if he pretended long enough, he'd stop feeling this way. Maybe if he acted like a normal best mate, he'd become one. He could pretend. He could smile and ask how Poppy was and pretend it didn't hurt. He could do that for Pete, at least.

Pete came back with a steaming paper cup and held it out. Stitch took it. "Sorry," he said.

"You had a rough night. Don't worry about it." Pete frowned at him. "D'you think you'll be okay?"

"I hope."

"Just forget about her, yeah? You'll meet someone else. I bet right this very second, there's someone out there and you're going to fall completely in love with them. You just need to meet them."

_I already have_ , Stitch thought. When Pete put a hand on his shoulder he didn't cringe. Instead he just looked away and tried to smile.


End file.
